


Echo in the Mirror

by Oliver__Niko



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Member Death, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Romance, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:14:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23649766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oliver__Niko/pseuds/Oliver__Niko
Summary: The reflection Felix sees in the mirror laughs at him, honing in on the features that his deceased family once possessed themselves. All around him are the expectations and admiring words of people who don't understand that he simply needs to grieve.When he is alone, and he is reassured that his tears are allowed to fall, he can let himself be vulnerable. He is reminded that strength doesn't mean to never let himself be in pain.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 5
Kudos: 83





	Echo in the Mirror

Words are knives that can carve irreparable wounds. What may be a song of praise for one person, can be a screech for someone else. They dig deep underneath the skin. Remain there for what seems to be eternity, creeping back at any given time, hiding in the darkness of closed eyes on an early morning.

You’re supposed to be sleeping. Instead, you listen to those words, you feel the soreness of your throat from past screams, and you’re reminded of how they keep you prisoner.

“ _Glenn died a noble death as a knight.”_

“ _You’re looking more like your father and brother each and every day. We have high expectations for you.”_

“ _Don’t let us down. You’re the heir now he is gone.”_

They weighed down on the frail frame of a grieving thirteen-year-old. Suffocated him, trapped him, with no room to properly mourn. He too had to be _proud_ of that death. Glenn, as a soldier, was granted the privilege of this death being meaningful.

No one understood the boy who simply wanted to see his brother’s smile again.

And so began the descend of that carefree heart. It grew colder and colder, hard as ice, and just as fragile as such. All around him were those expectations. They never stopped for a second. To this day, they have followed him.

Felix remembers those days spent in front of a mirror with tears streaming down his face, wondering if to cut all that hair away, the beautiful trait of Fraldarius men, to stop them saying he looks like _him._ Comparing him constantly to the handsome youth they all adored.

Because when people see Felix, they don’t see _him._ They see the brother who many must think deserved to live instead.

And they must be thinking the same again now, after the fall of another Fraldarius man, and yet more responsibilities fall on those aching shoulders.

He has not cried. He can’t. Glenn’s death forced enough tears out of those weary eyes of his, and for that, Felix had been told countless times he must be strong. He must bear the weight of being the Hier of Fraldarius. _Glenn_ never cried. _Glenn’s_ strength was not merely that which is physical, but mental as well.

What would they say to Felix if they saw him crying all over again? At least before, he’d been a child. He is an adult now. And men shouldn’t cry, they shouldn’t be weak, not when Felix now holds the dying wish of his father, obvious even without uttered words; that it is now on Felix to bring Dimitri to the throne.

There is no room for tears here. No room to be weak. And that is why, as he stares into the mirror in front of him and sees his watery eyes, no emotion in his numb heart away from this paralysing grief, he hates himself for that fragility once again.

And he despises the mirror with its mocking reflection. How he is an echo of men greater than him, more loved and adored than him, and the face and hair that is so similar to theirs do nothing but present his failures to live to their standards.

Felix forces his eyes down from the mirror. The shriek of the tap he turns rattles him, everything seeming louder, intense; his breaths are rapid as he runs his hands beneath the water. He splashes his face, trying to ground himself with its coldness.

His hands grasp either side of the sink. Head bowed, grip tightening as he wills himself to not look at that reflection again.

But he does. And this time, his mind—his cruel, unforgiving mind—brings him the memory of his father and brother in the rain, laughing together despite the water dripping down their faces and the hair soaked through to the scalp.

Those laughs echo in the mirror alongside his reflection.

A cry escapes Felix’s lips. A fist collides with the mirror, the shattering ringing his ears. Shards of glass edge themselves into his skin. Blood drips down. He backs away from the sink, trembling fingers taking hold of the corners of the glass.

It’s pulled out from his skin. The pain … Nothing soothes him quite like that pain, or the droplets of blood dripping from his hand to the floor. Perhaps there’s a part of him who believes he deserves it. It's not unlike the satisfaction he feels when overdoing training, where his body aches, but mind is empty.

After all, perhaps if he had been stronger, been there for either one of them, they wouldn’t have died. He could have done far more than simply hold onto their wishes in these pathetic hands of his.

His eyes burn alongside that cut skin, but still, he does not cry.

He doesn’t deserve to cry when the souls of his deceased family are likely suffering far more.

* * *

“ _You seem to be doing well, Felix. You’re making your father proud.”_

The days go on as normal. To everyone else, at least. Most surely believe Felix will not be all that affected by Rodrigue’s death. It is not uncommon knowledge, after all, how much Felix despised that man.

The same ideals creep up once again. How admirable of a death it had been. Many would deem dying for the future king as a privilege. Goddess, how he hates that chivalry. They use that to hide how awful it is that these lives are lost at all.

Ignoring that as they say it doesn’t matter after all, if you die like a knight should.

He understands their sentiments, to an extent. He understands they would deem a ‘noble’ death as superior to other ways to die. But death is the same either way. They will be gone, with no way of knowing what comes after; if you’re left rotting in the ground beneath you, or you truly do have a soul that will transcend to the next life. Either way, they are gone. You can comfort yourself by telling yourself tales of their courage. But it will never bring them back.

And they tell him these tales, as though it is _comforting._ They encourage Felix to not feel despair because of how great of a man his father was. How is that comfort? How is that supposed to help heal his suffering heart?

Or do they not believe it is truly suffering, because of his hatred?

This, Felix can understand more clearly. He too has found himself puzzled by the intensity of his emotions. Glenn had been the perfect older brother. Always able to make Felix laugh, smile, no matter how down he may be. The times he spent playing with Felix and his childhood friends were some of the best in his life.

The emotional hurt from his brother’s death makes more sense. But his father? The man Felix so openly despised? Perhaps this is less obvious. But he is still someone who, deep down, Felix knows he loved.

That death has shattered him. And the same so-called comfort finds him again.

Can no one see how much it hurts? Can they stop trying to cheer him up with pretty words about noble deaths, and let him simply be in pain? Of course they can’t. Not when he is supposed to be stone cold, resilient, obsessed with strength.

No one. No one understands, _wants_ to understand, and will look at him through lenses that aren’t clouded by their own expectations.

This moment of weakness Felix grants himself, as he sinks down to the floor by his bed, is for him and him alone. Because no one wants to get close enough to see it. They don’t care enough to see below the surface.

A knock at his door. “Felix? I know you’re in there.”

No one, except perhaps those who have known him from childhood. And the only person Felix has ever had a desire to love, to kiss, to let into the heart no one else can understand.

“Leave me alone,” says Felix regardless. His knees are brought up to himself, head resting against them. He expects his eyes to fill with tears. Yet when they remain dry, he feels little shock, realising he’s probably suppressed them long enough for them to never fall again.

“I’m not leaving unless I know for sure that being alone is best for you. And I can tell it’s not.”

“Does it really matter either way?”

“Yes,” says Sylvain. “It does.”

That silences Felix. He turns his head away from the door, on its side against his knees. He doesn’t give an answer. This is both an invitation for Sylvain to leave, and for him to enter. Felix isn’t sure which he wants. If he really does desire solitude, or if it’s merely the company of those who hold harsh expectations, tell him that he doesn’t have to be depressed when his father died so _bravely,_ that he wants to be miles away.

The door opens. Light creeps in through the crack from the door. But the brightest light is in the eyes of the man who enters, shutting the door behind him.

He doesn’t say another word at first. Merely walks over, sitting himself down on the floor by Felix. An arm is held out, inviting him in.

Felix shakes his head. “I can’t.”

“Why not? Can you not even let someone hold you?”

“I might cry if you do.”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

A humourless laugh. “Everything, if you ask anyone but yourself.”

Because Sylvain isn’t one of those people. No matter how dark Felix’s mind becomes, he knows that at the very least. The single person who sees Felix for himself. Who held him all those years ago, and _didn’t_ give him baseless words of chivalry.

Someone who can look deeper than the surface. _Wants_ to, because true love means needing to know what lies beneath, be it the good or the bad. And that person will understand weaknesses only contribute to strength.

“You can cry, Felix.”

“I can’t. You know I can’t.” Felix grips onto his legs tighter. “I don’t know how to make it stop once I start.”

A hand reaches for Felix’s shoulder. Hesitant, as Sylvain understands to be slow, cautious. Felix fears vulnerability. That hand settles, thumb tracing gentle circles over his shoulder. “It’s only us two right now. I’ll stay here as long as you need me to.” When there’s no answer, Sylvain adds, “How many times did you comfort _me,_ whenever Miklan hurt me?”

“That’s different.”

“How is it different?”

“You were young, a child. It was physical, and …” Felix voice cracks, as much as he wills it not to. “I have to be strong. I can’t let them down.”

“You’re not. You never do, Felix. Please.”

Sylvain reaches for Felix’s face, easing it up from his legs. His hands cup Felix’s cheeks, urging the other to face him. A pang in his heart as he sees the relentless agony in Felix’s eyes, the paleness of his face, and the bottom lip that quivers.

“Don’t,” Felix whispers. “I can’t. When you hold me, I …”

Sylvain hushes gently. Thumbs stroking over the skin, and lips brushing against Felix’s forehead. “You always wanted to protect me from him. Always let me cry, and cried a lot yourself, considering you were quite the crybaby.” He smiles with bittersweet amusement as he brings his head back down, facing Felix directly. “Let me protect you, Felix. Even if it’s just here, and you simply let yourself cry again.”

Felix shakes his head. Yet even as he does so, there are tears welling in his eyes. Overwhelming despair breaks through the numbness. His legs slide down to the floor as he falls against Sylvain, head resting against his shoulder. Tears pour, even though he knows they shouldn’t.

In turn, an arm wraps around Felix, bringing him closer. He crumbles.

“I miss them.”

“I know.”

“Everyone, they—they won’t let me mourn, it’s the same as before, they only care …” That armour Sylvain wears, the armour that Felix wishes could be put away forever, hurts as Felix presses his face into it; he cares little as his body jolts from a harsh sob. “Chivalrous deaths and … a-and how _privileged_ I am to take their place, that I have the opportunity to _honour_ them—”

“They never let you simply hurt,” Sylvain murmurs. Felix shakes his head.

“Never. And that’s why I shouldn’t be crying, I can’t …” Felix’s hand grasps over the edge of the armour on Sylvain’s shoulder. “I want the pain to stop. I can’t do anything like this.”

Sylvain’s brow creases, his hand reaching for Felix’s head to run his fingers through his hair. Every single tremble sends pain straight to Sylvain’s chest. “You don’t have to do anything, my love. I’m right here for you.”

“What if I … what if I lose you as well?” Felix crumples against Sylvain, leaning down with his head against the other’s chest, cold metal against a burning forehead. “I can’t … Not you, can never lose you.”

“You won’t. Remember our promise? That we won’t die unless it’s together?”

“Glenn promised he wouldn’t die.”

Sylvain inhales deeply. Hands land on Felix’s shoulders, easing him up from Sylvain’s chest; Felix blinks to bring his eyes in focus to look at Sylvain’s face, sending fresh tears cascading down. “Well, I’m more stubborn than you think. And if we both promised to do the same thing, then I’m not going to go back on that.” Felix’s eyes close as the strands loose from his ponytail are tucked behind his ears. “I will never leave you. Ever. And I’ll never see you as anyone but yourself, never put those expectations on you.”

A moment of silence, Sylvain leaning in to brush a light kiss against Felix’s lips. Again on those tears on his face, followed by Sylvain’s thumbs to wipe away the rest. Felix sways slightly beneath the touch. Exhausted by emotions, by grief, the fear of being vulnerable.

“I must look pathetic right now,” says Felix. Sylvain shakes his head.

“I’m proud of you, Fe. It takes a different strength to let yourself cry like this.”

Felix’s chest tightens. Those words are only encouragement for more tears. He lowers himself down, crossing his arms over on Sylvain’s lap as he hides his face in them. A hand is back on his head, stroking him, Sylvain murmuring blissful words.

None of it seems baseless when it comes from him.

“I wish I could take away all your pain.”

Felix wished the same all those years ago, when he would find another bruise on Sylvain’s cheek. He brings his legs up, wanting as much of his body against Sylvain as possible, uncomfortable armour or not.

“Can you? If I stay here, always, maybe …” Felix’s grip tightens on his arms. “Maybe it won’t hurt as much in the end.”

Fingers slide underneath the hair tie in Felix’s hair. It’s carefully brought down, leaving the strands loose over Felix and Sylvain’s lap. Sylvain brushes his fingers through it, as gentle as he had been as a child, taking Felix’s hand in his own as they’d run together. Laughing, smiling.

“If that’d take it away, even a little,” says Sylvain, “I’d stay here forever.”

A smile appears through Felix’s tears. “Forever sounds nice.”

He feels himself grow limp against Sylvain. His tightly closed eyes loosen, his shallow breaths deeper, and his exhaustion begins to take him away. Slumber finds him within minutes.

Sylvain notices, brushing a few strands of hair away to find a peek of Felix’s face. “It will be forever,” Sylvain murmurs, picturing the ring waiting in his room. “One day, I’ll promise that to you properly.”

Deciding that Felix is better off somewhere more comfortable than Sylvain’s armoured body, he carefully turns Felix over. An arm beneath Felix’s legs and over his torso bring him up in Sylvain’s arms as he stands. Sylvain can smile despite everything. There’s no sight quite like this man in his arms, even if his face is stained with tears.

Sylvain places him down onto the bed, removing his shoes and gloves for comfort without waking him. As Sylvain settles down in the chair at Felix’s desk and brings his gaze out of the window, he finds himself thankful for Felix’s trust in him.

* * *

Despite his sleep being so shallow and short-lived, as it often is these days, Felix is still greeted by images. They are incoherent and scattered. Fragments of dark, long hair; of blue eyes, laughter.

Blood as well. So many droplets of it, everywhere. Felix is so accustomed to it, his heart does little more than simply ache in his slumber.

He wakes with a pounding headache. That must be from the crying he can recall. He blinks his exhausted eyes, adjusting to the room around him. A smile breaks out on his face when he sees Sylvain sitting at his desk, reading. Of course he is still here.

“How long was I asleep for?” Felix asks, rubbing at his eyes. Sylvain’s head rises. Smiles too, the moment his mind processes that Felix is awake.

“Only a couple of hours. You’ve not been sleeping well lately, have you?”

“Sometimes I wake up more exhausted than I was before I fell asleep.”

Sylvain places the book down, getting up from his chair. Felix sits up on the bed as he walks over. Eyes closing when Sylvain leans down to press a kiss against his lips. Softly, as though kissing glass.

“And how are you feeling now?”

A hum. “Exhausted again. And my head hurts from all that crying. But I think I’m a little better.”

Sylvain’s lips find his forehead. “Even if you weren’t, that’d be fine, too. You’re allowed to not feel better.”

“I know. But I do, even just slightly. Maybe it was falling asleep in your lap.” Felix finally comprehends how he’s on his bed. “You put me on here?”

“Yeah. Thought it’d be comfier than my armour.” There’s a fond smile on Sylvain’s face at the slightest huff—Felix pretends he doesn’t enjoy Sylvain lifting him up, even if that’s far from reality. A hand reaches to the chest now uncovered by that armour. Only Sylvain’s under-shirt covers his skin.

“One day, you won’t need to wear it at all,” says Felix. Sylvain’s hand is held over Felix’s. Beneath their palms is the beating of Sylvain’s heart.

“One day,” Sylvain echoes.

Felix’s hand is lifted for Sylvain’s lips to brush against it. The former slides his legs over the side of the bed, stretching his limbs as he stands up. His eyes glance over at the desk.

“It makes me happy to see you take time to read,” says Felix. “I know how much you enjoy it.”

“Yeah, you really appreciate the small things in war, don’t you?”

“Always.” Felix wanders over, glancing at the cover. It’s a non-fiction favourite from Sylvain’s childhood. Even with the darkness cast over those days, there had always been lights like this breaking through.

His eyes flicker to a mirror. Felix’s brow furrows, and he begins to search over the desk.

“Where did you put my hair tie?”

“Over here,” says Sylvain. But as he goes to point to a drawer in the desk, his movements halt halfway. “Is it because of Rodrigue, that you don’t like having your hair down?”

Felix’s own movements slow to a stop. “I look too much like him this way.”

“Perhaps there’s similarities, but you look like your own person.” Sylvain gently guides Felix to sit in the chair. The latter watches as Sylvain pulls open the drawer in the desk, hairbrush now in hand.

“Fancy yourself a hairdresser?” asks Felix; Sylvain is now brushing through his hair.

“Mercedes taught me one or two things when she had long hair, too,” says Sylvain. “I wanted to be able to do this for you. Imagine those lazy mornings together, waking up in each other’s arms in our home, and I style your hair.”

Felix hums, relaxing now the knots are freed from his hair, leaving him with only the relaxation of Sylvain carefully stroking through it. “Yeah. That sounds nice. If I don’t cut it short, that is.”

“That’s up to you. But Felix, I really love your hair. And it’s not because it’s like your father’s.” The brush is placed down, and Sylvain begins to braid a few strands of hair on the side of Felix’s head. “It’s because it makes you _you._ How you tie it up to train, blow those strands away from your face when you get warmed up. How you only let yourself wear it loose around me, and how pretty it is when it’s falling down your back, stuck to your skin … It’s beautiful. And I don’t think of anyone but you when I look at it.”

No one but him … Felix does not know how else to respond other than to close his eyes, leaning back in his chair. Words arrive eventually. “Then I suppose it can stay. Maybe I’d even grow it longer, once the war is over. Would you like that?”

Sylvain leans down to nuzzle his nose into the back of Felix’s hair. “What matters is what _you_ like, my love. But yes, I’d adore it even more.”

Those gentle hands proceed to the other side of Felix’s head. He begins plaiting the strands there as well. Felix watches in the mirror, realising that he can stand to see his hair down far more when Sylvain attends to it with such tender love in his eyes.

When he finishes this braid, he brings both of them together at the back of Felix’s head. He pins them there with a hair clip he finds in the drawer. A smile, fingers running down to the ends of the hair with a kiss planted on top of Felix’s head.

“Just like a princess,” he teases. Felix rolls his eyes, turning his head from side-to-side in the mirror.

“You know, I can tell you like art. Those fingers of yours can be surprisingly gentle.”

“Despite what else they can do.” Sylvain’s hands stroke over Felix’s shoulders, down his arms, and the teasing tone fades. “Felix, baby.”

“Mm?”

“I want you to tell me who _you_ see, looking in that mirror.”

“What?” Felix glances at his reflection. “Me, obviously.”

“Exactly what I mean. Despite how anyone else tries to view you, what matters is how you see yourself. And I can think of a thousand other ways you’re different to them, beyond what I said before.”

“Sylvain …”

“Appearance wise … Your jaw is a little less strong than your father’s. Obviously your eyes are different, your hair is straighter, you’re shorter … And you know, I doubt that neither your father _nor_ your brother had this cute little mole you have,” Sylvain’s finger pokes at Felix’s shoulder blade through his shirt, “right there. And don’t even get me started on your personality.”

“Because my best quality is definitely my personality.”

“Mm, I think it is.” Sylvain’s arms wrap around Felix from behind, swaying him gently from side-to-side. “Because I wouldn’t have fallen in love with you otherwise.”

Felix is silent, resting his head back against his boyfriend behind him, eyes closing. A lump has grown in his throat—almost as though he might end up brimming with tears again. Even if he holds them back, they’re not riddled in as much despair anymore.

“Thank you, Syl,” he says quietly. “With so many people how they are, being with you is just …” He sighs as Sylvain’s hands stroke up either side of his neck, cupping his face. “It’s like everything washes away.”

“I’m glad, beautiful. I know that all I can give is words, but—”

“You give me far more than that.” Felix’s head leans back, inviting those lips down to his.

Every one of those words, every touch and embrace, help Felix to put one foot in front of another. He’s not sure how long it will take his heart to mend. He doubts it will never do so completely. There will always be those days where the tiniest things cause him to miss what he has lost, nights where he lies awake sobbing because his nightmares are relentless.

But it can repair itself, little by little, when he gives that heart, and his entire self, to the person he loves unconditionally.

And Felix will do the same for Sylvain’s heart, always.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write about the emotions Felix experiences beneath the surface, how he must have felt after Rodrigue's death and how he struggles to let himself be vulnerable. I hope that you enjoyed this interpretation, and I thank you for reading it!
> 
> If you would perhaps like to follow me on Twitter, feel free to find me @/nikobynight. (includes NSFW content). Have a lovely day.


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